


There For You

by JuliaJekyll



Category: The Beatles
Genre: First Kiss, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Content, Sickfic, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-08-17 07:54:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8136218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaJekyll/pseuds/JuliaJekyll
Summary: The recording of the Please Please Me album, in particular the final song, Twist and Shout, takes a massive toll on an already-sick John. Naturally, Paul wants to take care of him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "The last song nearly killed me. My voice wasn't the same for a long time after; every time I swallowed it was like sandpaper."  
> -John Lennon on "Twist and Shout", Anthology

“That was fucking miraculous,” George declared after the final notes of “Twist and Shout” had faded away. Paul was about to agree with him, but then John went into a violent coughing fit that caused him to bend nearly double, and Paul almost dropped his bass in his hurry to get to his friend. He laid an arm across John's sweaty shoulders—he'd taken his shirt off for the song, for whatever reason—and rubbed soothingly. “You alright, Johnny?” he asked. 

“Water,” John choked out between hacking coughs. A bottle of water was pressed into Paul's hand by Ringo, and he took the cap off and handed the bottle to John. John took a long drink, several quiet swallows, then sank to the floor, still sputtering, face flushed. 

Paul sat down beside him, rubbing his back. “You fucking nailed it, son,” he assured the singer. 

“And now I pay with my life,” John almost whispered, grimacing in pain. “Goodbye, Paul; it's been great.” He laid his head on his knees, panting shallowly. 

“Are there any more cough drops?” Paul asked George and Ringo. His own voice was rather hoarse; they'd been singing for literally the entire day, recording their first album, but he could only imagine how John, who'd had a cold and a sore throat to start with, was feeling. Paul honestly hadn't been sure he would be capable of making it through the album, but that was John. Unstoppable. 

Ringo held out a couple of cough drops, which John gratefully accepted and shoved into his mouth. No one spoke for a moment as he sucked on them. Paul didn't remove his arm from around John, glad that John wasn't shaking him off, wanting to be near him.

“Do you think you can give it another go, Lennon?” George Martin asked from outside the booth. John looked up, disbelief in his dark eyes. 

“You tryin' to kill him?” Paul demanded. He pressed his hand cautiously to the back of John's neck, forcing down the mild satisfaction of finally having a reason to touch John there, on that plane of delicate, perfect skin. “He's burning up.” 

“'m fine,” John muttered, which was so obviously bullshit that no one even reacted to it. “I'cn do it again.” 

“I can hardly even hear you talk, mate,” Paul said. “I think you may have given it all you had.” 

John smiled weakly, his eyes bright with fever and his hair damp with sweat, and Paul found that even a distilled version of the other man's smile could make his heart skip a beat.“Nonsense,” he croaked. “Help me up, son.” 

Paul shook his head, but there was no reasoning with John when he'd already made up his mind, so he stood up, gave John his hand, and hauled him to his feet as well. John swallowed what was left of the cough drops, picked up his guitar, and got back in front of the mic.

“Ready, Ringo? George?” he rasped. 

Ringo, looking doubtful, sat back down behind his drums. “You sure, mate?” he asked. “You look like hell.” 

“'m sure. McCartney, pick up that goddamn bass.” 

Paul obeyed, and, at a signal from George, Ringo started up the beat. 

However, as Paul had predicted, singing the song a second time through proved impossible for John. He'd hardly made it past the first couple of lines before he shook his head, defeated, his voice shot. The song trailed off when he stopped trying to sing, and John stood there, hunched slightly forward as if the weight of his guitar was nearly too much to bear, looking dejected and disappointed and very, very ill. 

Paul wished he could carry John home, let him sleep in his arms, lay him in bed, kiss his forehead, and stay until he stopped looking so miserable. He hated seeing his friend like this. 

Ah, screw it: he hated seeing the man he adored like this. 

“It's alright, Lennon,” he heard George Martin say. “We'll use the first take. This album's a wrap, boys; go home. Relax. You've earned it.”   
Paul was the first to move after George's dismissal. He pulled the strap of his bass off his shoulder and went to John, who was still standing in front of the mic, not moving a muscle. “John?” he said. 

John was swaying slightly on his feet, and for a second, Paul was afraid he might pass out. His strength was obviously gone, drained completely in the absence of a current goal to complete. He turned toward Paul, and Paul helped him with his guitar. 

“Come on, John,” Paul said, putting an arm around John's waist, feeling John lean heavily against him for support, no longer trying to talk or maintain the appearance of health. “Let me take you home.”

* * *

 

John's movements were stiff as Paul guided him across the yard, into the house, up the stairs. He helped John strip down to his underwear and lay in bed, then asked him if he wanted some tea. John just nodded jerkily, eyes already closed, clearly exhausted. Paul saw him flinch when he swallowed and felt an immense rush of sympathy. He desperately wanted to alleviate John's pain, in any way he could. Of course, that was always the case, no matter the source of the hurt. Whether John was ill, having a problem with his family, fighting with some girl, doubting his talent, or just remembering his mother a bit too vividly, Paul was always there, willing to do anything that would get John to feel alright again. 

Paul loved John, he mused, as he made their tea. He loved him with a fierce and unrelenting passion whose source he still couldn't quite determine, but of whose existence he was more than certain. Even when they were teenagers he would feel, now and then, flashes of desire to touch John, to hold him, to pull him close. Now, he'd long since accepted the fact that he was attracted to John as he'd never been to another man, and that he was as much in love as anyone could ever hope to be. 

It was his secret pain; the only one he had that John didn't know about. 

When Paul entered the bedroom with two hot cups of tea, one of them containing an amount of honey that bordered on overdose, as well as a small plate of dry toast, John was lying down with the blankets pulled up to his neck, shivering violently and looking utterly, heart-wrenchingly miserable. “Paul?” he said, his voice barely audible after the abuse he'd put it through that day. 

Paul quickly set the tea and toast down on the bedside table and reached out to feel John's forehead. His skin was clammy and much too warm. “Oh, John,” he said softly. 

“C-come here,” John whispered, his eyes pleading. Paul didn't hesitate before climbing under the covers with his friend. John snuggled against his chest, and Paul instinctively wrapped his arms around him, holding him close but not too close, not wanting his temperature to go up any more. He could feel John shaking. 

Gently, Paul began to stroke John's sweat-soaked hair, moving it away from his face, tangling his fingers in it. If he was going to be totally honest with himself, he'd have to say that he wished he could always have John this close, not just when his defenses were down. He wanted it to be a given that he, Paul, would take care of John when he was ill, because it felt completely natural and right, the way everything from music to camera crews to ridiculously lengthy flights felt in John's presence. Even the shitty things felt like things he ought to be doing, if John were doing them too. 

“I'm s-so cold,” John bit out through chattering teeth. “D-don't leave me, P-Paul. You're warm.” 

“I'm not going anywhere,” Paul promised. 

John swallowed and winced. “Throat hurts,” he rasped. 

“I know. Do you want to drink some tea?” 

John pulled back a bit, nodded. “But stay in b-bed.” 

“I will.” Paul sat up, reached over, grabbed John's tea. John took a grateful sip. 

“Thanks.” 

“You got it. You should eat some toast, as well. You need to get something into your stomach.” 

John took the piece of toast Paul held out to him and ate it slowly, cringing every time he had to swallow. By the time he finished, his eyes were watering from the agony. “Like s-sandpaper,” he said, gesturing weakly at his neck. 

Paul gave a small, sympathetic smile. “Rest,” he said. “My mum always said that's the best medicine.” 

John lay back down and closed his eyes. Paul lay beside him, no longer holding him, just gazing at his profile in the dim room. He nestled a bit closer, so that his forehead brushed John's temple. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine this as the norm; to picture sharing a bed with John on a permanent basis, seeing him every morning, being able to take care of him as soon as he needed it, whenever he needed it. As he took in John's scent, his presence, he felt a familiar craving somewhere at the base of his throat, a well-worn desire to deepen an already deep connection. 

He could have stopped himself. Could have, but didn't want to. Slowly, Paul leaned over and pressed a single soft kiss to John's neck, just below his jaw. His skin was feverish, and Paul hoped that his lips were cool enough to give John at least a second of relief. 

When he pulled away, John didn't move, and Paul briefly thought he might have succumbed to his exhaustion and fallen asleep. However, just then, John said, in a raspy, weak voice: “Paul?” 

Paul felt a thrill of fear. “Yeah?”

There was a brief silence, and then John whispered: “Do that again.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this was originally going to be a two-shot, but after writing the second chapter I decided to make it three chapters long. Enjoy!

Paul's first instinct, upon understanding John's whispered words, was to freeze. “What?” he asked, his voice almost inaudible. 

“Again,” John whispered roughly. “Please?” 

Slowly, Paul sat up. John gave a small, disappointed-sounding moan at the loss of proximity, but Paul just reached for the glass of cold water he'd placed on the bedside table behind the tea and took a sip, then rubbed his lips together, coating them in cool moisture. Once again, hesitantly, he leaned down and planted another kiss on John's neck. He felt John shiver and sigh. 

“Again,” John requested, so softly that Paul felt the vibration in his throat more than he actually heard the word. A little emboldened, Paul pressed his lips harder against John's skin, adding the tiniest swipe of tongue before he pulled away again, tasting faint traces of salt on his lips from John's sweat. John took a deep breath, but started coughing hard on the exhale.

Swiftly, Paul helped him sit up, grabbed the cup of water, and gave it to John. John took a drink, then let out a shaky breath. “Thanks,” he croaked, leaning into Paul, resting his head on his shoulder. “I feel like shit,” he said faintly. 

“I know,” Paul said. “Lay back down and get some sleep, yeah?” 

John nodded. He lay down again and closed his eyes. This time, he fell asleep quickly, no longer able to fight against the needs of his body. 

As he listened to John's slow, stuffy breathing, Paul realized that he was hard, and he rolled his eyes at the inappropriate timing. This wasn't a sexual situation, damn it; it was just some comfort for his sick friend, but apparently his penis hadn't gotten the memo. The proximity to John, as well as finally being able to get his mouth on his skin, had turned him on rather severely. 

_You're fucking sick,_ Paul thought to himself. _Bloody barking mad, you are. This is your best friend, and he's fucking incapacitated as well. This should NOT be arousing, you horny bastard._

He wasn't about to jack off right there in bed with John—he wasn't fucking _depraved_ , for chrissakes. But he couldn't resist reaching down under the covers and giving his unfortunate cock a small, sympathetic squeeze. As he fell asleep, he was still fighting off the urge to imagine John's beautiful, talented fingers squeezing him instead.

* * *

 

When Paul woke up, pale sunlight was streaming into the room, and he felt incredibly relaxed and well-rested. He'd desperately needed the sleep after the marathon recording session the previous day. 

He turned his head to look at John, who was lying with his arm draped over his eyes, chest rising and falling rhythmically. He hoped John would feel better today. 

A memory of the kisses from the previous night flashed into Paul's mind, and his cock immediately took an interest, getting embarrassingly hard embarrassingly fast. Paul gave a small sigh. How could one person (a man, no less!), turn him on so much? 

He couldn't help it: he leaned over John, looking down at him, wanting to move his arm away so that he could trace his hands over that beloved face and kiss every single part of it. He wanted to feel John in his arms, John's mouth moving against his, John's hands on him and _oh God he needed to get off._

He was considering slipping out of bed and going to toss himself off in the shower when John stirred and moved his arm, and his attention switched focus from his cock to his best friend. John opened his eyes, and Paul looked at him, tried to smile. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked. 

John groaned. “Awful.” He closed his eyes again, then, slowly, reached up and tapped the side of his neck. Paul raised an eyebrow. John tapped again. “Paul,” he whispered, “could you...?” 

“Could I...?” Paul repeated, hardly daring to believe that John was asking for this. 

John sighed. “Like last night. Please.” 

“I-” 

“It helps,” John whispered. “Dunno why.” 

That was all it took. Paul would, of course, do anything to make John feel better. He leaned over and gently kissed John's neck, and was gratified when he noticed that John's skin no longer felt quite as unnaturally warm as it had the previous night. 

John made a small noise that Paul recognized as a request for him to continue, so he did. He kissed John's neck, lips stroking over his pulse point, pressing against the side of his Adam's apple, tracing tendons and smooth skin. 

John began to make a series of small sounds, and, because of how raspy his voice still was, it took Paul a moment to realize that his friend was forming words. He listened carefully through the haze of desire and arousal, and recognized the words as “I want...I want...” 

“What?” Paul whispered, his mouth still against John's throat. “What do you want?” He was, in that moment, prepared to give John anything he might conceivably request. 

“I want...your mouth,” John said quietly, the words coming out in a rush. 

Paul pulled away from John's neck and looked into his eyes, which were tired and dull from illness, but focused and sincere from conviction. “You mean...?” 

John nodded once in confirmation. “Want ya t'kiss me.” 

Paul leaned closer, hardly breathing. “Are-are you sure?” he stammered. Everything in him was trembling. He could find no words to describe how badly he wanted to close the gap between them. The thought that he might finally get to feel John's lips was overwhelmingly powerful. 

“Not now,” John said quickly. “M'sick.” 

“Don't care,” Paul hissed. He paused for a brief second, then decided on full disclosure. John wanted to kiss him, so what was the harm in telling him the truth? “I've wanted to kiss you for...fuck, John, I don't even know how long.” 

John's eyes filled with amazement. “Really?” 

“Yes. God, yes.” Paul leaned closer still, but John shook his head quickly from side to side.

“Not like this,” John whispered, his voice pleading. “I don' want t'remember...that the first time I kissed you...I felt like shit.” He coughed a few times, then added: “I want it t'be...perfect.” 

Paul's heart was pounding. He couldn't believe John was actually saying this. As much as he wanted to snog John senseless right now, he could see the sense in what he was saying. He pulled back. “Ok, John,” he said. “But be prepared, because as soon as you recover, I'm going to kiss you beyond recognition.” 

John smiled weakly. “God, I hope so.” He coughed again. “Throat's dry,” he croaked. “Water?” 

Paul nodded quickly. “I'll get you some,” he said. He still felt unbelievably light, like he might float off his feet. John knew. Knew, and felt the same way. They were going to kiss. As soon as John felt alright, they'd kiss. 

_They were going to kiss._

“Thank you, Paul,” John said softly as Paul got up to get him some water. 

Paul smiled at him. “No worries,” he said. “After all, I'm keen that you get better as soon as possible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was Chapter 2! Stay tuned for John's recovery :)   
> I'd also like to add that, should you have any requests for Beatles-related stories that you'd like to read, please drop me a comment, and I'll see what I can do. I'm interested in trying some prompts from others. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John recovers, and, well....I'm sure you can guess what happens next.

There were more kisses over the next several days.

  
Paul kissed John's neck, his clammy, feverish forehead, his collarbones, his cheeks, his jaw. As John had requested, he never kissed his mouth, but once or twice he rested his fingertips against it, just to feel the softness of those lips. Whenever he did that, John closed his eyes, sighed, and didn't say anything, but Paul could taste the longing in the air, so much so that he wondered how he'd never noticed it before. The want that poured off John was impossible to ignore. It made Paul wonder if John could feel the same thing from him.

  
They had some visitors. George and Ringo came by, separately, and expressed their relief at John's slow but steady recovery. Brian came as well, nervous as a colt, and fussed over John, looking genuinely terrified when he realized that it was still difficult for John to speak. Paul brushed their manager off rather quickly, still a bit pissed off at him for not putting a halt to the twelve-hour recording session once it became clear that it was putting such a massive strain on John.

  
Paul would be lying if he said that John's condition didn't scare him too, though, and not just for personal reasons. John's fever broke, his cough went away, and his appetite returned, but his voice did not go back to normal, and the two began to fear that there had been some kind of permanent damage. They danced around the subject, but Paul could see the fear in John's eyes whenever it came up, feel the worry in the way he sometimes fingered his throat. Paul comforted him by holding him close and kissing his hair, and tried to reassure him that it would be fine again soon.

  
Eight days after the album wrapped, Paul fell asleep on John's chest, listening to his heartbeat and feeling the warmth of his skin. In the morning, John shook Paul awake with a force that made Paul latch onto him, afraid that something bad was happening...but he immediately relaxed when he recognized the manic glint that had finally come back into his best friend's eyes.

  
"Paul," John said, his voice still husky but finally back at full volume, "it doesn't hurt anymore." He gestured at his neck, and Paul saw him swallow three times in quick succession, as if just to prove he could. John threw his hands up. "It doesn't hurt!" he crowed.

  
Paul wrapped his arms around John, who nearly fell on him, burying his face in his shoulder. "It doesn't hurt," he kept saying, his voice sounding a little stronger every time, a few tears of relief seeping from his eyes and touching Paul's skin through the thin T-shirt he was wearing. "It doesn't hurt."

  
Paul crushed John against him, nearly tearing up himself. It was the sentence he'd been hoping to hear for a week now; the one that meant, surely, that John would make a full recovery. They remained in an embrace for several moments, and then Paul realized that they weren't celebrating anymore; they were just hugging, for the sake of it.   
And then, abruptly, as nice as it was, it wasn't enough.

  
Paul pulled away and looked into John's eyes. John's expression was uncharacteristically guarded and shy, which meant that he had to be thinking the same thing Paul was. Paul reached out, brushed his hand from John's temple, down his cheek, to his jaw. His eyes fell to John's lips.

  
John looked up, captured Paul's eyes with his, shifted closer. One hand went to Paul's neck, holding him in place. Paul wouldn't have moved if Elvis himself had kicked down the door.

  
He'd waited long enough.

  
John licked his lips. "I want-"

  
"Then take," Paul interrupted, breathless, and John did.

  
The initial touch was soft, but it morphed into a crushing kiss in under three seconds. Paul didn't mind one bit. He pushed his mouth against John's, returning the pressure, unable to still his craving for John no matter how hard and intense the contact. He grabbed the back of John's head, pulling him even closer until their teeth scraped together and their tongues wrapped around each other.

  
Paul wanted to say something to John, but he couldn't pull back; couldn't abandon the lips he'd wanted to taste for fuck knew how long. He kept kissing John, messily; so ungracefully that it couldn't even really be called a kiss, just two desperate mouths feeling each other up. Paul felt John clutch at him, clumsy hands moving over his neck, shoulders, back, cheeks, sides, ribs. Paul sank his fingers into John's hair, pulling as he continued to move his mouth over the other man's. John moaned loudly, and Paul thought he might come right there.

  
It wasn't at all like he'd imagined it would be. He'd expected a long, slow, delicate kiss for their first time. This was raw and rough and inescapably sexual.

  
Without hesitation - he was too horny to wait even one extra second - Paul reached out and plunged his hand into John's boxers, moaning when he felt the smooth, solid flesh waiting for him. John gripped his shoulders with renewed force, pulled himself closer, bit at Paul's neck. "Fuck," John muttered, then scrabbled at the hem of Paul's T-shirt. Paul broke the kiss just long enough to let John rip it off, then lay down on his back, bringing John with him dick first. John pushed his boxers the rest of the way off, and then he was naked in Paul's lap. Paul felt John's hand stroking over his erection, squeezing just a bit too hard. Paul bit his lip.

  
" _Christ,_ Paul, take these _off_ ," John ordered, his voice raspy. Paul hurriedly complied, and then they were both fully unclothed, rutting against each other with a quickness born of far too much restraint and waiting.

  
 _"God,"_ Paul groaned, feeling John's dick touch his at last. They moved together, pushing against each other, kissing the whole time, biting at each other's mouths and racing in tandem toward their climaxes.

  
"Yes..." John murmured, taking both their dicks in his hand and squeezing in all the right places. Paul tightened his grip on John's hair, closed his eyes, waited for the end that was close at hand.

  
When it came, it was glorious. Paul gripped John's naked back and thrust against him, riding the sweet orgasm, riding the high of knowing that this was John; John, the boy he'd been watching for years, the only boy who had ever driven him mad this way, the only boy that seemed to matter. After a moment, John came too, and then they lay together, John sprawled on top of Paul, legs spread, hands clenched in the sheets behind Paul's head.

  
When John finally rolled sideways off Paul, their lips glided back together, moving slowly now, in and out and over and under, gentle and careful and everything Paul had ever wanted. He cupped John's face in his hands and nipped his upper lip softly, feeling John's answering smile.

  
"Damn," John said, looking into Paul's eyes as they pulled away from each other again. "I never realized just how much my real voice turned you on."

 

Paul smiled. "How could it not?" He gave John another quick kiss.

  
John's eyes sparkled mischievously. "Well, now that I can talk again," he said, smirking a little, "I can finally tell you about all the other things I want to do to you."

  
Paul felt a shiver go through his whole body. He pulled John back in, pressing their chests together, kissed his lips again. "I'm listening," he replied.


End file.
